


suburban ennui

by generalpallor (ThatBoyOliver)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: ...twice, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben smokes cigarettes a lot, Hux's ontological status is ambiguous at best, Kylo feels bad about Han's death. That's it that's the entire plot, Kylo is lonely and confused, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, a between-high-school-and-college au, attempt at magical realism but really just playing around, corrupting Ben Solo, hot summer nights and cold suburban wind, oh yeah a cat gets killed in a later chapter and it's not pretty i'm sorry, sloppy outside handjobs, snoke if you squint, suburban ennui as advertised, that kind of thing, weird visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatBoyOliver/pseuds/generalpallor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He dies at the end of summer. Ben learns about it from morning television, an interview with a local star interrupted to broadcast the news. An intercontinental flight number 7631, crashed just by its origin airport, cause unknown. Perhaps a technical failure. A part that should have been replaced sooner, a small leak, doors not closed properly.</p><p>---</p><p>Han dies at the end of summer after a fight with Ben, leaving him feeling guilty and empty. He runs away from home at nights to avoid being with Leia, until he meets a mysterious boy with fiery hair. A boy with fiery hair who will very much be his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. NIGHT I

He dies at the end of summer.  Ben learns about it from morning television, an interview with a local star interrupted to broadcast the news. An intercontinental flight number 7631, crashed just by its origin airport, cause unknown. Perhaps a technical failure. A part that should have been replaced sooner, a small leak, doors not closed properly.  Leia screams and covers her mouth with her hand as if afraid of her own voice, but all that echoes inside Ben's skull is the number: '7631'. Seven is after six and six and three and one cancel each other out making a ten; but six and one is also seven and seven and three is a ten as well. Interesting. Grotesquely technical in contrast with the crying people on the screen.

He is 19 and sitting over a bowl of cereal, and to this day, Cheerios have a bitter aftertaste.

Ben barely remember s both that day, and the funeral. The latter has brought many people together, family from the countryside, odd uncles in ill-fitting suits and aunts in jackets from the eighties, smelling of foreign air and must.

Rey, Poe, and Finn come too, ripped away from their  just- begun university lives. He barely sees them, shadows of themselves climbing walls and lost between the guests, they do not fit here anymore, they are not from here now. Rey is holding Finn's hand strongly. Ben is sure Poe's 'buddy' has gained a foreign accent.

Their  narrow two-storey house in the suburbs barely holds so many guests,  people spill onto the big, mostly empty back yard where the still-hot air makes it hard to breathe. Ben stays inside as he sees Poe leave with Finn, Rey talking with one or other cousin, barely holding back tears. Nobody has loved Han Solo in life as much as they love him in death.

He wishes he could go to his room, but is afraid of offending some unspoken rule, not for his sake, but for Leia's. He feels drops of sweat on his forehead, and one travelling down his neck under the white shirt's collar, as uncle Lando ruffles his hair and says half-jokingly that he is the man of the family now, so he has to be tough. Ben has a feeling Lando thinks that without these words he'd break down and cry, but in reality, it is the salt of the sweat irritating his red-tinted eyes and the bitter expression on his face has been painted by the violent sun. He cannot take care of his mother if he is not quite made for this world, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece, wrongly cut at the factory, even his youthful face does not fit his hunched body, his nose does not fit his mouth.

Ben, Benjamin Solo, son of ex-smuggler-turned-pilot Han and Leia Organa. Only not anymore.

 

'Have Rey and the rest finally left?' he asks, toying with a silver knife, one only used on special occasions.

Leia  passes him with her hands full of dishes,  full make-up still on but hair tied back hastily with a rubber band.

Uncle Luke and Lando have stayed to help clean the house, but it is too late now, and they are left alone once again with the TV on in the living room. Scratching of metal against the wooden top of the old kitchen island.

Everything feels lighter after the people have left. Everyone is always so angry, everyone is yelling without opening their mouths, and he is not sure why he can feel it. The waves of  hatred and  despair come off their skin giving him a migraine.

'They have. You could have helped me with the cleaning,' says Leia. She opens the already overflowing dishwasher to stuff some more plates in.  A mosquito buzzes somewhere by Ben's ear.

'Where does Rey go? To school, I mean.'

The clatter of plates brushing against each other.

'Up north. Engineering. You should have asked uncle Luke.'

'I didn't want to seem interested.'

'Will you ever go to school?'

'They would not take me.'

'That's not true and you know it, not with your grades.'

She turns around, brown eyes wide open and judging.

'They would not take me for entirely different reasons.'

'They cannot want to take you if you've not sent your applications.'

'Perhaps I will next year.'

It is barely possible to worry about your  university applications when your life feels like it's falling apart, he thinks, remembering the despair of past months, the freeing feeling of bone crushing under his knuckles, blood on his shirt, not his  blood , some boy's, the parents' meetings and the dent in the locker's door that the school did not bother to repair.  A part of him wishes for that feeling back again. Leia notices the dark shadow in his absent eyes.

'Do not think of that again. The past is the past.'

Ben mutters something, nods not quite in agreement. Leia continues:

'Your father would have wanted you to  go study somewhere. Not rot in this place.'

'I doubt Han would have cared if I died, mum.'

'Just because you hardly cared if he died does not mean that he didn't care for you.'

Her voice is still soft, more motherly than he has ever heard it being. So sweet it grinds straight through his chest.

'I did not care and I still don't. That much is true.'

The words are blatant lies spoken through trembling lips. He sees the way Leia looks at him again, coming closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. His skin burns from human contact.

'You think I am the reason Han is dead,' Ben spews. He stops playing with the knife, instead holding it tightly in his fist, and he feels it again for a moment, the cold breeze at the back of his neck, wonders briefly how it would feel to push the knife into soft flesh. His thoughts stop with a sob.

'I have never said that.'

'But you do think so. That our argument was what caused him to act odd on the job, be tired, that he would drink because of me- is n't that true?'

'Planes don't crash because one pilot has not had enough sleep, Ben.'

His grip on the knife falters, letting it drop on the counter, and his chest is heaving but he does not make a sound. Ben pushes Leia's hand away and stands up, leaving behind his mourning mother, the television hosts laughing about some meaningless news, the leftover smell of the barbecue.

He runs up the narrow staircase, creaking, threatening to fall apart under his heavy feet.  Running into his room, walls covered with posters and floor barely visible under piles of clothes,  he takes off his sweaty black jacket and throws it on the bed.

Ben opens the old window, scraping off bits of old paint by accident.  It opens up, not to the side, and h e  rips off the never quite useful  net  meant  to protect  the room from bugs.  His other hand goes through the pockets of his suit trousers,  looking for the pack of menthol Marlboros. He finds them quickly, the box stuck to his leg through the fabric because of the heat and walks out of the window, too small for his frame. It has gotten cold since Luke and Rey left.  The  cold breeze coming from the sea of detached houses ' rusty roofs .

He stands on the roof at the back of the house for a while, enjoying the sight of the back yard, the trees behind the fence dancing along to the wind. The starry sky, not very often seen just on the outskirts of the city. A feeling of despair clutches his chest, a feeling of insignificance. The lawn is still scattered with crushed plastic cups and tissues, two full bags of  rubbish by the house wall.

Ben carefully lowers himself from the roof top , long legs dangling just above the ground as he lets go and lands on the grass. His feet burn in uncomfortable shoes. He walks towards the front of the house, the street, eerily empty, lit only by one distant light. A shadow of someone on a bike far  down the street . He walks away a few steps, to make sure Leia doesn't see him, and finally  lights the cigarette that has been awaiting its fiery end in his pocket for much too long.

Inhaling, a thought of Rey invades his mind, Rey and Poe and Finn, all with their own lives and their own worlds, only he has not moved out, only he is stagnating in the suburban hellhole still remembering their times as k ids that describe their feelings through colours and dictionary words of the day because in this world  it holds more meaning than 'love' or 'hate'. The turpitude of naked asphalt.

'That boy hasn't done anything to you, kid,' Han said that night.

'I know, but you can't feel what it's like, the pull... '

'What was his fault?'

'He was there.'

Then he exploded, then Han screamed and Ben ran upstairs,  head hurting, eyes painfully dry, hearing the voices of his father and Leia arguing until he fell asleep. The next morning, Han was dead.

A flicker of orange in the corner of his eye.


	2. NIGHT II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I feel like I should mention that so there's a mention of medication, alcohol, and a brief description of that poor boy Kylo beat up (again).

The cold comes too quickly. It's not yet the middle of October when icy claws grasp Ben's uncovered ankle in his sleep and he stumbles to close the window at 3 am. His fingers brush against the desk covered in various drafts of resumes for jobs from call centre employee to barista, all of them unsent. An old Star Trek poster looms dangerously over the bed threatening to fall down with every swifter movement, but Ben falls down on the mattress gracelessly and drifts back into uneasy sleep.

 

Phasma comes briefly, in the morning, wakes up Ben who puts on yesterday's ripped jeans and the first T-shirt he can find. She talks about the people at her school, Ben, you should have gone to university, you'd love the parties, how tiring studying is and the lectures so dull but her eyes glisten with excitement.

He is standing in the kitchen as he swallows his morning dose of meds, an ungodly big pill that refuses to go down his throat. It makes him feel weak, to have to rely on one little bunch of chemicals for a wrongly wired brain. But Phasma smiles at him as she sees Ben struggling to get the pill down and he smiles back with tearful eyes.

He sits down on the sofa again. Phasma, clutching the PlayStation pad, soft whines of a dog asleep on the carpet between them and the TV.

'There is a girl,' she says.

'Hm. Is she pretty?'

Phasma doesn't look away from the screen, pushing the buttons so strongly her thumb's gotten white.

'Yes, but I have to be realistic about me and relationships. They don't work out. I'm a woman of action, Ben.'

Proving her point, the character on-screen defeats the one played by Ben and the TV's speakers erupt in loud noises of victory. The boy puts the pad down and passes Phasma a beer.

'So you've got a job in the city?' The girl continues.

'No, actually. I wish they'd tell me what's wrong with me instead of just giving me the 'we'll call you, sir' shit. Is it the hair, Phas?'

'The hair is glorious and don't you dare do anything with it,' she says sharply. Ben likes Phasma for her sincerity and lack of will to show emotions. He is not comfortable with other people's feelings, having barely learnt to control his own. Cold, calculating. No warmth in her stare.

The bottle opens with a loud hiss. Chewie, a small dog that's more hair than body, looks up worriedly from where he's been asleep on the floor.

'What's up? What's up?' says Ben in a high-pitched voice, looking at the pet as it looks back at him in confusion. 'What a dumb dog. Yeah, who's a cute doggie?'

Phasma taps the top of the bottle, a rhythm that reminds Ben of something almost painfully, but he cannot place it. Something familiar but long-forgotten.

'Your mum paid that boy you fucked up?'

'I did not fuck anyone up,' growls Ben, more aggressively than he wanted to, remembers the boy's scared eyes and high scream but cannot remember his name.

Phasma cautiously moves away a bit.

Jaw brittled in three places, two avulsed teeth, bruised ribs and something with a retina. A concussion, too. One rib just broken enough to barely miss a lung. Because he can't control himself.

'You want to play another round? I'm choosing a different character this time,' says Ben to lighten the mood. Phasma immediately smiles.

 

Leia comes back from work early. Ben jumps from the couch at the sound of the car pulling into the driveway, its lights illuminating the dark living room. Chewie stands up excitedly. He runs to the door despite his old age, still expecting to see Han in his laughable and pathetic naivety, don't you understand that he won't come home, Ben thinks, passes him to open the house.

The street is empty already, eerily quiet, the air cold. The sound of the car being closed, a small blue Mazda that's been in the family for a few years, and Chewie yowling while desperately trying to get between Ben's ankles to run and greet the guest.

Leia walks up the short stairs holding heavy-looking bags of groceries. Ben pushes Chewie inside the house somewhat brutally to let her in.

'Hi.'

'Hello Ben, you weren't awake yet when I left.'

The boy looks towards the sofa, noticing the empty cans of coke and beer as Leia passes him to get to the kitchen.

'Has Phasma visited?'

'Yes.'

Ben closes the door. It slams shut with the rattle of old chains and a heavy lock.

'She's a good girl. Did you have something to eat?'

'We ordered pizza online. Mum, what's gonna happen with the Falcon? You're going to sell it?'

'Well, I don't know yet,' Leia answers, a sad tone in her voice. She is unpacking the bags when Ben comes closer to the counter to help her. She gives him a surprised look. 'We might sell it, or we might give it to Lando.'

'I could drive it.'

'You don't have a license.'

'I could get one. I've plenty of time. And Han taught me how to drive anyway, I just need the piece of paper.'

'It needs repairs.'

Ben points at her with a box of tomato juice.

'I'll find a job to pay for them?'

Leia looks up at his from above her glasses, eyes wide.

'Yeah, because fucking Ben can't do anything, sorry, I forgot,' he groans, throwing an unpacked bag of groceries inside the fridge.

'It is not your name to use in such manner, Ben.'

'Whose name is it then? You all say it like it's not mine but I don't think you've ever said who that Ben was.'

'A relative. A friend, really. He died long before you were born, Benny. Please let's not talk about that. Too many deaths in this family.'

'Well people die, it's a thing.'

'Ben.'

'I'm going upstairs.'

'Don't you want dinner?'

He looks briefly around the not-his house, not-his clothes bought with not-his money, not-his name.

'I'm still full from the pizza. No.'

He runs upstairs only to do the same thing he always does. Puts on a hoodie, an old pair of checkerboard Vans, and is out of the window soon, cold air hitting his overheated face, not caring if Leia hears him jumping down onto the lawn.

There is something different in the air when he goes out on the street. It is already dark, it shouldn't be, it's only October. Everything is silent. No engines running. No neighbours playing music much too loudly.

Nothing but a simple, rhythmic sound. Like Phasma's tapping. He follows it. It is coming from behind the houses, all set nicely in a row by the street, all looking almost exactly the same. It comes from near the trees. Ben takes a turn by a house without a fence, crosses its garden carefully, and the sound grows louder, a crinkling, a ringing. _Tum-tum-tum_ -break- _tum-tum-tum._

The parcel ends just by a small pond inbetween trees and it becomes apparent what the sound was. There's a shadow of a figure, its back turned to Ben, throwing stones onto the surface of the water.

The creature seems small, frail, but as he comes closer Ben realises they are just about the same height. It's a boy. Pale white skin, orange in the dim light of the street light, and the most ginger hair Ben has ever seen. A fitted black shirt, dark trousers that end just above the ankle, polished dress shoes, he barely emerges from the shadows, slim hands held tightly by his sides.

There is something fresh about him. A gust of cold wind; his skin a white canvas begging to be destroyed, violated, soft despite harsh shadows. He looks both from the past and the future, mysterious and sterile, inhuman. Unsettling.

'Can you?' He asks, voice raw.

'What?'

'Skim stones.'

He's barely reflected in the flat surface of the pond, black against black. He has a slight lisp, swallows complex consonants. Speaks like a foreigner, but his accent is difficult to place. It's somehow more clear than what they speak here. Alien, almost. He has something of Alfred Douglas in himself; fogged jaded eyes, full lips painted with broad strokes, gaunt cheekbones.

Ben has no idea why this odd creature is speaking to him. He seems otherworldly when his thin hand picks up another stone.

'I can't,' Ben admits.

The other boy says nothing. He comes up to Ben and puts the stone in his hand.

'Name?'

His voice sounds like a dog's bark, but at the same time holds a hint of warmth.

'Ben.'

'You don't seem like a Ben.'

'I know.'

Ben nods as the boy's fingers entwine his own. He lifts Ben's arm, fingers so cold they seem to burn.

The juxtaposition of fresh mosquito bites on his forearm and the wind inviting trees to whisper words of farewell to summer. The boy's fiery hair and icy skin.

'Put your index finger on the side of the stone. And spin it while throwing.'

'Alright?'

'Try it,' he says, and it sounds dangerously close to an order.

Ben does, but it's too quick, too forceful, and the stone drowns as quickly as it touches the surface of the water.

'You're angry,' says Hux.

'You live here?'

'No.'

'No need to be a prick. You're visiting then? Family?'

'Let's say so.'

'I'm the opposite. I mean, I live here and I'm currently trying to get away from my family.'

The stranger does not answer. He throws another stone towards the pond and it skips once, twice, three times, the water's surface painted in brutally monochromatic colours by the moon and one single street light.

'By the way, I knew you weren't from here. You seem foreign. What is your name?'

'No first names. Hux.'

'Sounds like shit.'

The boy, Hux, shoots him a glance. He's beautiful. The stern stare, the straightness of his pose, the ghostly complexion that makes him seem like a vision that's about to disappear. But so real at the same time. Ben still feels his cold fingers on his skin.

'You said you didn't think I was much of a Ben.'

'You're not.'

'Then what am I?'

Hux looks at him in an oddly robotic manner, green eyes roaming across his body, his face, the line of his nose- too too big, the ears, too too stupid, hair a mess-

'A Kylo.'

'A Kyle?'

'Kyle-o.'

'That's not a name.'

'It is yours now. Take it before I change my mind. Better than the one your parents chose for you.'

Ben thinks about the talk with Leia. The way the strangers half-swallows the 'lo', the ease with which he pronounces it as opposed to the heavy 'Ben'. Nobody's cared enough to pronounce his name with such reverence.

'Okay.'

'Why do you want to run away from family?'

'My father died recently.'

'I know.'

Ben looks at him wide-eyed. A green light in Hux's eyes.

'You seem distressed. That's all. I have guessed someone must have died.'

'Oh. Well,' Ben looks away, toward the water. He plays with the hem of his hoodie, fumbling, trying to find anything to hold on to as he feels more and more unreal, the silence, the sound of nothing but stones on water and being able to see nothing but the stars and the boy's red hair. It's colder than he thought. His fingers find a familiar shape in his pocket, and he grabs it, an anchor binding him to this place and this moment. He looks up to have Hux look at him, and he does, and Ben's shoulders are hunched in a way that shows discomfort, hands eager to tug at the fabric of his clothes again, but his face paints a different story; determination, and a flicker in his eye; playfulness?

'Want a cigarette?'

'I don't smoke.'

'Let me corrupt you then,' Ben smiles, lopsided mouth showing crooked teeth. 'I seem to be good at that.'

He gives Hux a cigarette, the box dwarfed by his big hands, and looks as the boy doesn't take it in his fingers, but into his mouth straight away, lips almost brushing against Ben's skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fffwp I don't really know what to say. I really hope you like this update. Unfortunately the 'M' rating will be justified only by chapter... V, I think, ha. I know what you're here for, my friends.
> 
> (also if you see any mistakes don't be afraid to point them out, I'm not a native speaker and I don't have a beta)


	3. NIGHT III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so there's some blood, a corpse, and that jazz by the end of the chapter, but it's all a dream, so you can skip it if it's not your thing and you won't lose out on too much.

Ben is not naive, he has learnt to kill hope in himself early, but he wakes up with a headache and a lingering longing to see the boy again. The unfamiliar burning in his chest that seemed to get him through yesterday.

A week passes without seeing him.

He does not leave his bed for a few days, not quite bothering to do anything but play guitar. The  moaning sounds of not quite tuned strings fill the room. By the third day, his eyes have gotten used to not discerning colours anymore.

The damp sound of rain hitting the roof mixes with the music, the rough but sorrowful notes of what was supposed to be _Love is All_ by The Tallest Man on Earth. The rain pries away the stuffiness of the still summer air from the room through the open window. It gets stronger as Ben's fingers begin to  ache, not quite as rough and as used to playing as they should be. Unwashed locks stick to his forehead. The wind dries the sweat off his chest, barely hidden by an overworn T-shirt. The bed wobbles slightly, one broken leg held up by an old videocassette of Kubrick's _E_ _yes_ _W_ _ide_ _S_ _hut._

Another sound w e a ves itself into the thick fabric encompassing his hearing and his phone vibrates against the bedsheets.

_And bitches out there don't faze me_ _  
_ _I take it blow for blow, a ho is a ho;_ _  
_ _A bitch is a bitch is a bitch, so-_

'Mum? Yeah?'

'Ben! Are you awake? Are all the windows closed?'

'Might be, I think.'

'T here's a storm in the city, it should probably reach our house in a while.'

The metallic sound of her voice, breaking because of the wind does not seem entirely to be hers.

'And turn your computer off. Also, take care of Chewie, you know how scared he gets-'

'I know, mum. Anything else you wanted to say?'

She's quiet for a moment. Ben immediately  regrets the question.  Hr fears anything that might be interpreted as an invitation to talk more than necessary, the word 'Han' more scary  t o him than anything. It does not allow h im to pretend  t hat h is father has never existed  and nothing has changed.

'Do you remember Hong Kong? And Japan? Maybe we should take a break, Ben?'

Her voice is soft, but again artificially so, and the boy fails to bring himself to care, to feel bad, mind  overridden by his own emptiness.

The skyscrapers of Tokyo so tall he felt  insignificant , the disappointment of coming back to the town where nothing ever changes. He wonders if he hasn't seen the villages of Norway and the sunset in Turkey, if he hasn't known there were greater things, would he like this place more? Enjoy the Stockholm Syndrome of those heartless streets? She senses his uneasiness through the phone  and changes the subject:

'Have you applied for a job?'

'I wonder sometimes if maybe it would  be better if you let me take care of myself,' Ben huffs.

'You could have been in prison. Or expelled from school.'

'I know.'

'So maybe you could sometimes be more grateful for my position.'

She sounds  exasperated , rough for the first time in years, not like Leia, and  Ben imagines her eyes, deep brown eyes filled with frustration and sadness.

'Thank you,'  he stutters, barely recognising his small, raspy voice.

'I have to go, the minister wants me. Take care.'

'Okay.'

For a moment he  wants to stop her, drumming the fingers against the polished wood of the acoustic guitar. Black. A Yamaha. He wonders if he could tell her about Hux. The pretty boy. But he couldn't.

Sharing has never been a thing one did in the Organa-Solo family. He wonders if perhaps in a different life, he'd tell his mother about a boy he might fall in love with at some point if he's ever fortunate enough to see him again. But the thought is swept away from his mind with one  thought abou t Leia, the figure everyone would call motherly, but that hides years of distrust and strained arguments. He hasn't told her about his first crush because even he hated himself for being so weak and foolish, and as he grew more confident in himself, the emotionless façade grew with him.  A t this point suddenly deciding to share his life was not an option, the rough shell he'd built around himself over the ages too strong.

The storm doesn't come fully until after Leia returns home and goes to bed, only exchanging a few passing pleasantries w i th her son on his way to the bathroom.  He's grateful for that.

The small bathroom's window remains open despite Leia's wishes, but the light  is switched off, nothing but the moon and the  occasional lightning to guide him as he splashes his face and knotted hair  with water over the sink. He doesn't quite wash them, just  yearning to be rid of the uneasy feeling rather than dirt and sweat.

He returns to his room in the same shirt and loose old jeans, from when he cared even less to be fashionable. Returning to bed he takes the guitar in his hands again.

A hit to his window. Another. Not hail, it  doesn’t fall at such an angle, perpendicular to the glass. Between the  loudness of thunder and rain hitting  against the walls of the house, he hears a  high voice that makes him look out of the window.

There he is, the boy from a week ago, standing in the backyard, clothes as black as before, red hair and pale face bright even in pouring rain.

Ben slides on his old shoes and jumps out the window,  immediately slipping and falling down the roof, breathing easier in the cold, the water hitting his face as if for the first time in years. He jumps down to the grass.

'Hux?'

The boy regards him with a judging look. The white shirt almost transparent in the rain, old jeans, hair a mess on his head and dry, blood-shot eyes. He puts a hand on  Ben's arm. But not with affection. Like he'd touch a piece of furniture.

'You're a mess, Kylo Ren.'

'So we're doing surnames now?'  Ben teases. Hux doesn't seem to react, not except for the  tighter squeeze around  the boy 's arm. His fingers burn again and Ben flinches. He  wonders if all human  touch burns in that way. He wouldn't know.

'You wanna come inside?'  Ben asks, pointing at the house.

'No.'

He shoots the answer too quickly.

'Alright. Sorry.'

B en does not push him away; backs off, barely, shifting just so that Hux's fingers touch air instead of fabric.  He looks down. Rejection: understood. Approved.  Ben watches  Hux from the advantage of his hair hiding his eyes as the boy walks away and maybe it is better, his chest might ache but he escaped the threat of touch, touch, touch. He stops him with  words escaping his mouth faster than he can think:

'Wanna drive then?'

'Drive what? I did not think you could drive.'

'The Falcon.  My dad's car.  I can't, in theory. But there's no police here at midnight. No nothing.'

Hux nods sharply.

Ben smiles and opens the back door to the garage. It's a small room barely big enough for the so-called _Falcon_ , an old Jaguar XJS from the seventies. One of the first ones produced. Now it looks barely held together by the last pieces of metal and the memory of it once being a great vehicle. Once black, now mostly silver, more new parts than original ones. The door barely closing.

Hux touches the car's body with reverence, almost, barely touching the polished hood. Ben smirks taking the keys off a hook on the wall.

'You like it?'

'It's good.'

'We're gonna ride it. It kind of sounds like it's dying all the time, so don't be too scared.'

Ben opens the car door with the key and Hux lets himself in. He marvels at the sleek wooden finish and sand-coloured leather seats, though old and worn-out. Belonging to someone who was now dead. Ben smiles at the fascination in his eyes.

The  inside smells of Han's cologne and cigarettes.  The rain keeps drumming heavily against the thin metal roof  of the garage . Ben starts up the car, fumbling fingers fighting with the rusty ignition.  The engine begins to work with a low noise, more akin to a small aeroplane than a Jaguar.

A memory; Ben, sitting next to Han, a tall but skinny thing of maybe  thirteen. Summer sun and no AC. Sweaty palms and smiles and almost crashing into a road sign while Han tried to explain how to change the gears.

Hux's cold fingers on his.

'You need help?'  he asks Ben.

'I need you to open the gate.'

Hux leaves the vehicle without a word and pushes the gate open with more strength than Ben thought him capable of. Definitely louder than he wanted to.

He drives the car out onto the road in front of the house. Hux meets him there, freshly wet, red hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks pink with cold.  Trapped in the car whose weak lights li ght up the  empty road, rain  pattering over them, nothing but their heavy breaths, the clothes sticking to Ben's skin, unwashed, unclean, but wet and feeling on fire.

Hux's hand would feel so gentle in his. His thigh just centimetres away. His hips and slender shoulders.

'Where are we going?' asks Hux.

'Don't know. There's nowhere to go to. Just, around. Because I can now. When Han's not here.'

They drive aimlessly for a moment. Hux, sitting straight up, hands balled into fists on his  knees . Looking out the window. The rain pours down so heavily Ben wonders if they will deal with another flood this year. Nothing but white houses and trees on their way. Nothing but the black sky, the moon and stars hidden behind heavy clouds, nothing but the soft drumming of the rain instead of music.

'My mum thinks we should go on holiday,' Ben says, steering the wheel with one hand, propping his head up with the other resting against the car window.

'Where have you been so far?'

'Recently? Asia. Japan. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. It was… okay.'

'Tell me about Tokyo.'

'Have you never been abroad?'

'Not in the way you think.'

'That's menacing,' laughs Ben, but a part of him really does become scared.

'Tell me.'

His insisting eyes, and nose almost touching Ben's. Ben feels Hux's eyes on himself. A sense of panic overcomes him; he cannot annoy Hux. Why can't he? Why is the boy suddenly stronger than he, who has almost killed a man? A reaction now would mean defeat. Would mean that he was cornered by the boy, pushed into giving an answer. He decides to write the incident off as Hux being an annoyance rather than accepting that he caught him off-guard.

A long moment of silence.

'It's all noise sometimes, all people. And they have those no smoking signs like… they look like little characters, with legs and… It's cool. And there was some kind of a festival, with people playing drums and colourful decorations and music, and… Yeah. It was beautiful.'

Hux lays back  against the seat.

'It was with Han,' Ben says. 'My father. I wanted to buy something cool in Harajuku, something that wouldn't fit me anyway because…' he looks almost shy for a moment. 'Well, I'm big, but he said that it's a waste of money. But then he said sorry and bought me ice cream.'

'How old were you then?'

'Eighteen,' laughs Ben. 'How old are you? Now?'

'Twenty.'

They reach the pond from the other side. The houses seem small from the Ben stops for a moment.

'Hux, are you ever coming back to… where you're from?' 'I might.'

'You never tell me anything.'

'We've only met once before.'

But I have poured my heart out to you. But there is a difference between meeting during the day and meeting in the middle of the night after your father has died.

'There isn't much to say. My past is so bland it's non-existent, it blends with this town. I have a father who was a father and a mother who was a mother. I have two legs and two eyes and hair on my head.'

'You've never wanted to be more than this place?'

'I might do. But it doesn't matter in the grander scheme of things. You live what these streets have given you. Don't you?'

Ben wants to hit something, hot anger burning in his throat, knuckles longing to feel relief.

'Who is your mother?' Continues Hux. 'You live with your mother now?'

'Leia?'

There's a glisten in his eye, not green but sickly, hungry.

'Who is she?'

'Works for the government. Ministry of Defence. Useful. Sometimes. Father was a pilot. A poor one.'

'I have to leave now,' says Hux, bluntly. He goes to open the door. Ben follows quickly, wanting to find out where the boy lives, even though he knows he would not have the strength to seek him out. To admit that this is real.

They are both standing in the rain now. Water pours down Hux's face, down his white hands, makes droplets on his translucent orange eyelashes.

'Where do you live?'

'None of your business.'

Hux doesn't leave. He's too close now. Ben can almost feel the cold surface of his skin, smooth like porcelain. But there's no light in his eyes.

'I've killed a man once,' he  blurts out. He doesn't quite understand why.

'You haven't.'

'I almost have.'

Hux smirks doubtfully.

'Well, your eyes are lighter than you'd like to believe.'

'How did you know where I l i ve?'

'It's an easy guess.'

Something about the look in Hux's eye when he mentioned Leia's name makes him sick.  But he wants to see the boy's green eyes light up again.

He returns home thoroughly wet, but  face unhealthily warm . Sneaks into his room climbing up the drainpipe despite tired cold-lame fingers. He falls down on the roof again, but manages to walk into the room through the window he's left open.  He falls asleep in the same wet shirt.  He dreams uneasily again.

 

He isn't  breathing. Dead. His skin grows blue quickly in the icy rain. Tears in  Ben's eyes; tears mixing with raindrops, warm against h is cheeks.

'Crap,  Han .'

They are in some sort of water. By a beach.  A shore. It's dark and cold. He hits  Han's chest, and it gives in, ribs cracking under  Ben's fist. The knife. The knife  in his pocket . No.  H e tries to take  Han in  his  arms but h is legs give up, and  he  falls down, salty tears in his  father's hair.  Han . The knife.

He tries to compose h im self when the sea almost washes h im in, almost steals  Han 's body from  Ben' s arms .  Ben doesn't know where he is. The knife.

The boy carries  the body away from the shore, just a few feet before h is knees  give in under the weight again .  H e takes the knife from h is pocket, and for the last time check s  if he is breathing, putting h is cheek to  Han's mouth. It remains cold.

Ben unbuttons his  father's shirt, baring his green, hollow chest.  He puts the  k nife up and close s his eyes, the  wind ruffling the trees being h im the only witness to his crime . One, two, three.

Han's chest gives in as easily as his bones did. The knife doesn't make a sound cutting into his skin, and the blood doesn't begin to pour until  B e n takes the knife out. Then it does, slowly. A dead man's heart doesn't beat. It feels like skinning an animal. Another cut, this one easier, horizontal, between ribs, and a soft moan escapes the corpse's mouth as  the boy presses down on the lungs. Crap. H is blood-stained hands refuse to hold the knife anymore, it slipping out of h is fingers. A lightning.

He sticks a hand in between the broken ribs and pulls on something.

It feels as if it were still beating slowly, still warm, hot blood dripping down  Ben's forearm. It wants to escape from between h is fingers, but he holds it still, wiping red hands against a white shirt.  He cannot save Han, but he can take his heart home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Ben has as his ringtone is basically stolen from a scene from 'This is Where I Leave You' where Adam Driver's character has the same ringtone. I thought it played out well with both Ben's innocence in this fic (or well, in contrast to it) and his... rawness.
> 
> Sorry for this being such a filler chapter, but it was necessary. The next one will have some more interesting stuff in it.
> 
> Also: I will try to post one more update before I leave on holiday to Italy, but I really can't promise much, especially given how busy life is right now and with my, uh, crisis over the quality of my writing. But well! Hope you enjoyed.


	4. - apologies for not being able to update -

I'm sorry. I won't manage to finish the next chapter before I leave, and therefore, there will be no updates until at least Monday because I'll be in Rome. But have some illustrations for the fic I've drawn (you might have seen them on tumblr):

 


	5. NIGHT IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! No warnings for this one, I think. Enjoy :)
> 
> And thank you, everyone who's commented, or even just read this so far. I can't articulate how grateful I am.

It's Saturday afternoon when he wakes up with a lump in his throat, a sunbeam flooding the room  through the unclosed window. Th e night's storm is a fleeting memory, a wet tint to the air outside. His hair is still knotted. Still wet between his head and the pillow. Disgusting. The clothes stick to his skin with sweat and  the warmth of his skin.

Ben's head spins as he stands up, legs weak under his body, but a flash of a rusty smell, of blood. He checks his nose; not bleeding. The fresh air overwhelms his dormant senses, weakened like a domesticated animal after years of living in a place where nothing is worth  feeling . Ben stumbles to the shower on locked joints, fresh clothes in hand. A smell of arrabbiata sauce climbs up the staircase from the kitchen. Han is cooking his favourite,  he thinks and has no heart to correct himself, refuses to even acknowledge that juvenile mistake.

The boy hides behind the bathroom door as quickly as possible. Undresses, catching a sight of himself in the mirror over the sink of the freshly renovated bathroom. His odd, somehow deformed body, shoulders comically broad, fingers calloused and thick but inexperienced, he seems to be all rough angles but really is soft soft soft and puerile. The water gives a vain promise of washing off the fever. His illness only more obvious without the layers of grime and oil on his skin to hide behind as he stumbles out of the shower minutes later.

Ben walks down the staircase that suddenly seems narrow and old as if purposefully trying to set him off balance in order  to let Leia know how unwell he is.

She is standing in the kitchen, Chewie by her feet praying to the gods of Italian pasta for a bite, in his own odd language of whines and half-barks.

'No cook today?' mutters Ben. His voice comes out broken and rumbling.

'What's happened to your voice?' Leia turns back to face him, wiping her hand on an apron. 'My God, you're all flushed. Come here.'

The boy closes his eyes as he feels her frigid fingers on his forehead.

'You have a fever, Ben.'

'I know. I'm gonna... Go lie down on the couch.'

Ben crosses the  room , in a feverish haze hitting himself painfully on the side against the kitchen island. Falling on the couch, he hears Leia turning on the timer on the stove. The sound of water running against the metal sink hits his head in painful waves. He's shaking.

His mother leans over him, towers over him despite being so small and fragile. 

'Where were you at night?'

'Out,' Ben mumbles.

'I know. I've heard you jumping on the roof.'

'Haven't you heard the stones on my window?'

'Stones? No. Maybe I was too tired. Who was throwing stones?'

'Don't know. Hm.'

'You can't do that. Go out so late. Who knows who can be out there at night.'

It's a lie, Ben knows, nothing out of the ordinary would happen in this bland place, the biggest threat to his safety was he himself. But he understands that layer of her voice that's wavering with the fear of Han no longer being there to defend him, not even in theory.

'The nights are getting longer now,' Leia says, rubbing a damp cloth over his forehead in a manner so maternal he's suddenly ten with pliant eyes and his first broken bone. But it's a fleeting thought. He wonders if that means he'll get to see Hux more often.

The nights getting longer sound like a threat. Yet Ben is open to fighting.

'Uncle Luke is coming over in a week, to see how we're doing.'

His throat burns too much to answer that he's  doing perfectly fine. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the feeling of the wet cloth on his head, drops of water dripping down his neck and sending shivers down his spine.

'I can't understand what  u ncle Luke goes through. Losing a friend is so much worse than losing a family member. Someone being your friend implies some sort of affinity. Someone being your family member just means you've been pushed out of similar vaginas. Vaginae.'

'Ben.'

She gives him a half-hearted stern stare that he doesn't see from under closed eyelids.

'Did you love Han, mum? I don't get it.'

'I'm not talking about love with you when you're burning up.'

'He was a dick.'

'So am I sometimes.'

'True.'

'Sometimes love isn't quite enough, Ben. Sometimes love isn't good. Sometimes what love brings isn't good.'

'Life's not good. Could have divorced him.'

'He could be imperfect, we all are, but he could cook a much better arrabbiata sauce.'

'I'm glad I can't taste much with this cold then,' Ben  mutters , and almost smiles, just barely, a ghost of a curve on his lips.

He falls asleep with his mother's fingers brushing his hair.

 

When he wakes up again he finds his teeth  chattering, gums raw and itching. He stops himself. He's under a blanket now, Chewie snoring by his feet. And it's night again. The soft steps of Leia's in her bedroom upstairs.

A small piece of paper sits atop the coffee table. He plays with it absent-mindedly, in a haze, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dimness of the room. He makes out only the simplest outline of the letters written in thick marker:

 

_Food in the fridge. I didn't want to wake you up - Mum_

 

There is no twist of hunger in his stomach, only the upset and vague uneasiness of illness. He manages to untangle himself from the blanket without waking up Chewie, too deep in his dreams of chasing prey and nibbling on meaty bones.

He only just notices the light that suddenly appeared next to him. Soft, yellow, accompanied by a soft buzzing sound. It comes from the back porch. He had no idea it still worked, Han was supposed to change the lightbulb, but he never got to.

Ben carefully stands up, knees locked, eyes as alert as they could be while red and  hurting , and opens the back door next to the fridge. Just carefully enough to be able to jump back if someone were to attack him. But the heavy atmosphere in the air fills him with  familiarity.

The porch is all lit up and yellow against the jet black yard.

'Hello.'

A voice from the side. Cold, yet homely. Hux. He's sat on an old swing sofa, once red, now barely orange, the mattress ripped by Chewbacca's fangs.

'You know my mum's awake.'

Hux watches him closely, then his eyes dart up towards the lit-up window on the upper floor just over the porch roof.

'I don't mind.'

'Yeah, but don't let her hear us. She said I shouldn't come out at night.'

Ben sits  down next to Hux. He's very careful not to touch his knee with his own, not to sit so close Hux could feel the fever and sweat and grogginess emanating from him. The weakness.

He feels cold, goosebumps covering his forearms, but he can see from Hux's parted lips that it's not. He looks like he's fighting for every breath of oxygen with the stifling air. There's going to be a storm soon, again. One of the violent but cold ones. Autumn approaches with rough grimness.

'The swing sofa is nice,' says Hux, playing with the ripped fabric.

'It's very old. Han bought it after I was born. So mum could sit here with me and watch uncle Luke doing the gardening.'

'You still miss Han,' 

'I don't miss any part of him,' Ben snorts. 'But mum is sad.'

'Please, miss him,' Hux manages to say before he catches the words in his throat. There's something odd about him, something too human.

Ben looks at him with wide eyes.

Their knees are touching now. Ben searches Hux's face, the pale planes of it, glassy eyes hidden beneath light eyelashes, the warmth in his stomach unbearable as he puts his hand under his ribs as if to fish it out.

'Hux, what are you?'

'Hm?'

'Who are you.'

'Nobody, really.'

Hux's voice, groggy and private, like a late-night radio host  with his mouth too close to the microphone lulling him to sleep on trips far away from home,  with all the uneasiness and excitement.

'Are you ever allowed out if it's not at night?'

'No.'

'So you've never quite seen the day here. Not really'

'No.'

He wonders what it's like. How different from his own life.  Ben loves to be outside in the city, loves the colours of day. The lack of colour of his room, of these streets dulls his mind. But then, Hux. The violent green of his eyes that changes  to blue and grey, the red of his hair when it catches light. In desperate times when his eyes refuse to focus and his mind goes blank he searches desperately for the hair, for the subtle colours of his skin that seem to stand out and paint a picture, paintings more vibrant than life made up of little dots and plains of colour, the red of his eyelids and greyish pink of his lips and yellow and purple undertones of his skin. Anything that catches Ben's eye.

He wishes he could show Hux.

Ben touches his temple gently, with just the very tips of his fingers,  like Leia touched his forehead .  Just to feel the connection.

He senses Hux's feelings as the boy closes his eyelids, as if in pain.  Hux's mind explodes with feeling that spill over into Ben's consciousness.

Colours bright enough to bring tears to  Hux's eyes. They are shielded from the blinding darkness, still faintly remembered by the rods of his retinas, from the black of the night, but not from the blinding green and yellow, from colours that feel and engulf his midbrain with a feral instinct to chase after them. Run away to freedom like an animal in a dark cage.

The streets flooded with sun so bright  it makes it hard to see clearly, a dreamlike haze.  Green trees and pink flowers and the red faces of children from happy families, their dogs running behind them,  branches between teeth, the shallow  advert-esque image of effortless happiness and affluence.  Overblown colours, suspiciously wide smiles.

Ben  holds Hux's temple, eyes open, the imagery in his mind only a background thought, thinks of how it would be to touch the  red hair, to have the copper spill into his palms setting them aflame with their cruel light.

'It's beautiful,' Hux admits, opening his eyes cautiously. The blackness of the night hurts his eyes. 'The day.'

His voice small, hands tight by his side. He does not want to claim ownership of the words that have just left his mouth.

'It's tedious. I will show you the city someday. If you want.'

'How did you show me that? Why?'

'Aren't you the one who always knows everything?'

Ben's smile carries with itself the warmth brighter than the light of the outside lamp.

Hux's fingers carefully, ever so slowly, travel from the fabric of the sofa to Ben's thigh, and they don't feel cold for the first time, just pleasantly warm, and there's a human tint to the skin of his hand. Ben doesn't dare move.

'You like me.'

The words are as slurred as they can be in Hux's authoritative voice, as soft as they can be with his rough accent.

The light goes out in Leia's room. Hux's face is illuminated by the small lamp on the wall, and yet it ' s clearer than ever, Ben surprised he has not  yet escaped into the dark of the night.

'Yeah.'

Hux doesn't meet his eyes as Ben stutters on:

'Are you even like, gay? Or, into guys at all?'

Ben scraps his palm with rugged fingernails.

'I could be,' Hux answers.

'Can I kiss you?'

Hux's face changes, eyebrows tight together, as if really wondering not whether they may  kiss but whether they are able to.

He nods sharply.

Ben captures his bottom lip between his own ones, then retracts at the touch, eyes wide. Hux's hand grasps his neck back, fingertips tangled in sweaty hair, licks Ben's barely parted mouth hungrily. Hux tastes of  the staleness of old wardrobes. Pleasant. Homely. But with a layer of eerie ambiguity.

Hux runs his fingers through Ben's hair, damp, oily from the  fever, skin irritated by the warmth, smelling stuffy. He brings their lips together; plays with his upper lip. Light touches, the tip of his tongue on the other's barely-parted lips, nothing but the humming of the wind hitting trees and their breaths mixed with the wet sounds of lips and tongues. It's more sticky and damp than soft.

Hux pushes him away just as Ben takes a break to breathe in.

'This is absurd,' the boy just says.

'Because?'

Ben is breathing heavily, the fever rising up in his cheeks. Hux still doesn't look him in the eye, but Ben's hand travels to his hair. It feels thick and sticky with product, but the warmth of the skin underneath it, short strands swaying around his fingers feel like home.

'You fall for people too easily.'

'It's because I've vowed never to trust anyone. So of course I do. Very easily.'

It's barely a whisper, a blow of air from his lungs on Hux's lips. Hux's hand falls down to Kylo's chest and he feels a pang of something entwining his lungs. He can't breathe for a moment.

'I do not agree with this,'  Hux says.

'Alright?'

Hux looks torn. His eyes follow Ben's to the side. But he soon turns his head again, pushes his lips to Ben's just barely, a brush of soft skin.

He doesn't know what he wants, Ben thinks, I don't know what I want either, but God, more of this.

'I'm at your mercy,' he breathes out.

Another flash of that something in Hux's eyes, of that sickly green, inhuman again, skin like sleek porcelain. He seems snapped out of some haze, or perhaps snapped back into it, melts with the environment, the pale light and darkness. His hands leave Ben's body.

'I have to go,' says Hux.

'Me too. Before Leia sees that I'm not home. I'll see you?'

'Good night.'

Hux nods at him and for a brief moment Ben wishes for his lips again, but the boy walks down the wooden stairs and disappears, black shirt against black sky.

Hux's 'good night' warms his chest well into the night, the fever and cold  nothing  compared to the smile forcing its way onto his lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this chapter was very hard to write because it's the last one with such a distinctive two-part structure: first half Ben talking with Leia, second part Ben talking with Hux - and after two such chapters it's a chore keeping it interesting. I also could not work out how subtle (or not subtle at all) I wanted to be with Hux's characterisation and motives. Finally, it suffers heavily from writtenmajorlyontheplaneosis, so my word choices were of lesser importance to me than fearing for my life with every small turbulence. I hope it doesn't show too much though.
> 
> Also I hope you forgive the slight change in narration. At this point Ben and Hux are so connected that Ben can read Hux's feelings – therefore the slight diversion from the usual limited third person to take a peek into Hux's mind.


	6. NIGHT V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologise for not updating. Apparently I've vastly underestimated how busy life would become and how shaky my mental state can still be. But it's here, albeit short, and the next update should come soon as it's already in the works. I'm sorry, friends. I promise it's the last of the 'boring but necessary' chapters. As in, in the next ones things /actually happen/. Shocking, I know.
> 
> Warning for (very) mild sexual content at the end. And, well, Ben's language.

The scorch in his throat, the throbbing in his head, and the memory of the kiss. They persist for many days. He wonders if Hux regrets it, but the longing sending shivers of electricity through his nerves was unmistakable. And yet he is not there. Not any night for a week.

Cold sweep from the outside, sky dark with its greyness, trees turning an ominous black and dancing behind the window uncover peeks of the city like a faraway fata morgana for parched throats. Rain hitting the roof in mockery of his fist. He's dreamt of the boy he's not quite killed but not quite let him live. His hand and the unrest of his mind sending a man to purgatory.

The faint sound of the TV downstairs, stifled by the aged floor, a woman reading weather warnings in a jaded tone used to mechanically spitting out messages of death and famine every morning at 10am, names of the dead and sobs of their families before videos of animals learning to ride skateboards.

A tint of yellow on the horizon. A thin line just over skyscrapers, hiding behind the heavy purple of the clouds. The storm brings fresh air and Ben can finally breathe. Clean hair, clear skin, a white shirt and pressed trousers, the smell of fruity cologne. If Hux could see him like this, at his best, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with hair swept back, the chemical odour of hairspray and lightly burnt hair filling the room. But he will only ever see him at his worst.

There's an upset in his stomach at thoughts of red hair and gentle, gentle lips and fingers down his thigh.

'Ben, uncle Luke is going to be here soon!'

Leia's voice trained by years in office trembles through the walls like the weakening storm outside.

'Yeah!'

One last look in the mirror. The shirt embraces the curves and lines of his body just well enough, just properly, hair straight and kept away from his face, sickly blotches of blue gone from beneath his eyes.

A car pulling up the driveway. He can tell by the dying sound of the engine that it's Luke's old little French thing, barely drivable at this point. Chewbacca starts barking. The annoying but homely sound of his low growling.

He follows Leia's unnaturally high voice saying her greetings by the stairs, the car door closing once, twice, because they have not worked properly since before Ben was born.

The storm has subsided completely by the time he comes downstairs, Luke's long hair tugged and pushed by the light gusts of leftover wind. He's standing in the doorway, flashes a dim smile at his nephew.

'Hello, Ben.'

The boy looks him in the eye with no fear or shame. He's surprised by his daring himself, but Luke is so short, so old and weak, once-blue eyes as grey as once-blonde hair. The brown sweater hanging off his shoulders over a collared shirt hides the ageing body.

'Afternoon.'

The man passes Leia and ignores Chewie jumping at his feet.

'You look good,' he says, looking at Ben briefly. Leia chimes in closing the door:

'He's been sick for the past few days, but he's getting better. You want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?'

'Tea. Black?'

'Ben, would you?'

The boy nods and moves to the kitchen, away from the palatable tension that makes the hairs on his arms stand up. From Luke's eyes, not as judging as sad and tired, which is somehow worse than simple hatred.

The sound of water hitting the bottom of an old kettle drowns out the high-pitched, too-polite voices coming from the living room. It's a dull thudding of water against ceramic, then the humming of the gas stove and the faint metallic smell of burning propane. The warm fire, like Hux's hand, like the realisation that everyone you love will die from your hands and there's nothing you can do about it.

'How is work going?'

'It's good. But Brance says he's tired of bringing only bad news. The tensions are high with the opposition.'

'I assume after the tragedy they'd want to secure our relations with the west.'

'But it's deceitful. We have to remain faithful to our position from last year. But enough about that. How is retirement?'

Luke's laugh intertwined with the whistle. Ben pours the water into three mugs and watches the colour escape the teabags and paint brown clouds as his over-sensitive and overworked brain refuses to let go of such a simple thing. Making tea grows into a festival of colours and smells numbing him to all else. He carries the mugs to the coffee table with steady hands and furrowed brows.

'Here.'

Leia looks up at him with kindness and gratitude, and he can read the meaning behind it, not formulated murmurs of 'thank you for being civil, for being back to normal and not showing the world the grief we all feel'.

He sits by her on the sofa, legs too long to sit quite comfortably. Stirs his tea carefully, watching the trees behind the window that just barely conceal the lights of the city.

'How have you been?' asks Luke. Chewie attempts to climb onto his lap but doesn't succeed in his excitement.

'Alright.'

A moment of silence. Ben pouring one teaspoon of sugar in, then two.

'You're still not in school, are you?'

'No.'

He tightens his hold on the spoon. The weak metal bends under his fingers just slightly. Leia sighs.

'Ben, don't abuse cutlery. Here, take my spoon, I don't take sugar. My cholesterol's been too high, my doctor said. I have to watch what I eat.'

Luke's blood-shot eyes watching him closely. Not afraid, but wary.

'Leia,' he starts calmly. 'I've left the bag with your old clothes and Tupperware in my car. Could you go get that?'

'It can wait.'

'It really would be better to get it done now.'

A short exchange of glances

'I will go. You two talk.'

She leaves with a creaking of the door. The silence grows more unsettling. The clinking of the spoon against the mug. But there is no place for fear with the light pushing its way through the window and a brief hint of a rainbow over the trees behind the yard.

'How is life without Han?' Luke asks bluntly.

'I think he's home more often than he was when he was alive.'

'You should move on. It's no use clinging to old emotions.'

'Easy to say. You're not the one who killed him.'

'But I did kill my own father.'

'You didn't. Can we talk about the weather? The fucking weather. It's great. Pretty hot for autumn. Don't know what's happening. It's like time has stopped after school ended.'

'You hated him because you were afraid you'd be like Han.'

'Listen, I pay a good amount of money to hear that shit from my therapist already.'

A growing pain in his temples. That red and orange and the flames.

'But we all end up like our fathers. This is the curse of growing up. You can't deny it.'

'You've not ended like your father. Don't spew bullshit.'

'In a way I have.'

'It's meaningless. You are nothing like grandfather. You're a coward.'

'You don't know all about your grandfather. What do you think he represents?'

'Not being a Skywalker. Strength.'

The smell brings a memory of the kiss that's, in his memory, grown from a too inexperienced hungry mess into the sweetest thing he's ever tasted over the days of starvation and listlessness.

'There is more strength in saying no to difficult things than saying yes to everything.'

'But I don't want to. You know nothing about being strong. You can only give up. You mistake being good for being weak. And I'm neither. You don't know how tiring it is to keep your thoughts in tow. And I'm over it. If I kill a man, I don't care. I will at least be free. I will not hold back. It's no way to live a life being too tired to do anything. Because you're fighting yourself. Constantly.'

'You're a good kid, Ben.'

'Too good for my own damn good,' Ben spews, and Luke almost wants to laugh at the repetition as the word 'good' slowly loses meaning in his ears.

'You feel remorse.'

'I wish I didn't.'

'You feel guilty about Han.'

'Fuck off.'

Ben stands up.

'Admit it. Admit that I killed Han and scarred that kid for life. But you won't do that. Because you won't even admit that I'm good at being a detestable piece of shit.'

'I won't.'

His calm and unwavering voice kindles sharp anger in his chest, in his hands, the familiar itch that can be palliated only by destruction. The woman on the TV speaks up again, her voice drills into his head.

_'Next on the news, the further investigation of the 7631 flight crash-'_

Brutal force of his fist. Swift. Knuckles against the glass. The screen breaks, glitching display paints technicolor landscapes. Pain spreads from his fingers to his elbow but it brings release.

'Benjamin.'

Luke stands up, cautiously, as if confronted with a wild beast, holds Ben's closed fist in his hand. It's cold and rough and hurting.

'That boy is okay now. His name is Dan. He's okay now. He's angry and he's scared, but physically, he will be fine.'

There is something insulting in being treated like a rabid dog, but Ben's brain picks up its pace, free of the built-up frustration. One look at his uncle. He falls back onto the sofa. Heavy sobs coming off him in waves, tears coming down his face and hands clenching his knees so hard they will later leave bruises. But his heaving chest feels easier.

'You are too blinded by what you think is bad in you to see the good,' Luke says, calmly. 'Han did not die by your hand. Call it what you want. Fate. Life.'

But the choices I've made changed it, he wants to say, but keeps quiet, his mind working itself towards peace at last. Too tired to protest. Pristine white shirt shining brightly in the light of the room. Easy breaths leaving young lungs.

Leia returns with two bags in her hands, looks at Ben's tear-stained face. at Luke and the broken TV screen. The boy untangles himself from her brother's half-embrace. Shame and eyes hidden under now-messy hair.

 

Hux isn't there that night. Again.

 

He returns to his room, climbs through the window smelling of cigarette smoke and cold sweat and sits on his bed with a loud sigh. Leia and Luke downstairs, talking. The fan left on on his desk to ward off the remnants of the stuffy air from before, no matter how cold it gets, how close November looms. Peace. Nothing troubling his mind at last, but for the still surreal memory of Hux's skin under his fingers.

It is not easy to let his mind wander. There is a barrier he cannot cross, a dam shielding unruly thoughts from flooding his mind. But he finds that he craves it, like cigarettes or alcohol on a tiring day, he can let himself have that. He can have something for himself when everything has fallen apart and has been put together again by Luke's words in a way that feels soothing but alien. So he pushes himself, a door in the dam; flood of skin pale against the dark of the room's interior soon becomes adorned by small freckles and moles his mind paints, green eyes look up from under red hair that his brain builds out of rough strokes and silk.

A laughter and Chewie's bark downstairs. Luke's tired voice.

'But you've seen what they said on the news?'

'I know, so many people died up north, it's a tragedy.'

'It happens. Maybe we won't get a flood this year.'

He closes his eyes shut so strongly his head pulsates with a dull pain. His mind quickly grows tired, impatient in the unknown territory, but the tugging heat at his navel brings it back into focus, pink lips on his thighs and warm damp tongue. Sharp shallow breaths, and he gasps his name experimentally, tests the way it rolls off his tongue, the sound of the whisper hitting the walls of the quiet room. A jerk of his hand, a sigh of an 'H' and 'x' lost on his stiff tongue. He touches his thigh, but it's not the same, fingers too tough and calloused, too brutal, too his. A rough squeeze, a huff, heat and tugging and the overridden nerves of his brain and he comes with a jerk of his hips. For a moment, the beating of his heart and cooling head mixes with the muffled sounds of conversation downstairs, soft humming of the computer's insides.

Ben opens his eyes to see his room, still the same as when he was in high school. Trousers at his knees, the white shirt ruffled, cheeks burning, captain Kirk staring at him from the Star Trek poster on the wall. Oh, for fuck's sake, you're still a child, so immature, still playing such silly games. Distant, soft whispers.

'I'm worried about Ben, Leia.'

'We all are. Believe me, if I had the time… but there is no Han now. I have to take care of everything.'

'He might be dangerous. To himself, or others.'

'I don't know.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've literally only written that last scene as a gift for getting through this chapter okay. I'm sorry for the most pretentiously worded masturbation scene you'll ever read.

**Author's Note:**

> This will have short chapters because I feel like longer passages of my pretentious ramblings would be unbearable. Hope you enjoyed! I'll try to update at least twice a week. Hux will show up in the next chapter.
> 
> (and uh, if you ask where exactly this thing takes place - it doesn't. I mean. I didn't want it to take place in any country, just in... the suburbs. That is why I avoid mentioning any place by name. I suppose it's mostly a mix of American/Australian suburbs, but I'm European, so I really don't know)


End file.
